cb.coldheart canyon-第1部分

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　ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
　
　 There　are　a　lot　of　people　to　thank　for　helping　me　bring　this　one　home。　It　was　a　devil　of　a　book　to　write；　for　a　host　of　reasons。　For　one　thing；　I　began　writing　it　the　week　before　my　father　passed　away；　and　inevitably　the　long　shadow　of　that　event　dimmed　the　joy　of　writing；　at　least　for　the　first　six　months　or　so；　slowing　it　to　a　crawl。
　 Paradoxically；　even　as　my　production　of　useable　text　diminished；　I　could　feel　the　scale　of　the　story　I　wanted　to　tell　getting　bigger。　What　had　originally　begun　life　as　an　idea　for　a　short；　satiric　stab　at　Hollywood　began　to　blossom　into　something　larger；　lusher　and　stranger：　a　fantasia　on　Hollywood　both　in　its　not…so…innocent　youth　and　in　its　present；　wholly　mercialized　phase；　linked　by　a　sizeable　cast　and　a　mythology　which　I　would　need　to　create　and　explain　in　very　considerable　detail。
　 I　don't　doubt　that　this　second　incarnation　of　the　book　will　be　much　more　satisfying　a　read　than　the　first…which　I　had　written　almost　in　its　entirety　before　changing　direction…but　Lord；　it　was　a　son　of　a　bitch　to　get　down　onto　the　page。
　 Forgive　me；　then；　if　the　list　of　people　I'm　thanking　is　longer　than　usual。　And　believe　me　when　I　tell　you　every　one　of　them　deserves　this　nod　of　recognition；　because　each　has　helped　get　Coldheart　Canyon　out　of　my　head　and　into　print。
　
　 Let　me　begin　with　the　dedicatee　of　this　book；　David　Emilian　Armstrong；　my　husband　and　in　every　sense　of　the　word　my　partner：　the　one　who　was　with　me　when　one　of　our　five　dogs；　Charlie；　passed　away　（Charlie's　loving　presence；　and　the　sadness　and　frustration　of　losing　him；　is　recorded　in　this　novel）。　David　always　has　faith　in　my　capacity　to　go　one　step　further：　to　make　the　tale　I'm　telling　a　little　richer；　the　picture　I'm　painting　a　little　brighter；　the　photograph　I'm　taking　a　little　sexier。
　 My　thanks　to　Craig　Green　and　Don　MacKay；　to　whom　I　first　gave　the　handwritten　pages　to　be　typed；　and　most　especially　to　David　John　Dodds…my　oldest　and　dearest　friend…who　worked　through　much　of　the　Christmas　period　（with　the　Seraphim　offices　deserted　around　us）　polishing　the　text；　then　polishing　the　polishes；　so　that　the　immense　manuscript　would　be　ready　to　be　dispatched　to　my　publishers　before　I　went　to　recuperate　in　Kauai。
　 To　Bob　Pescovitz；　my　researcher；　and　Angela　Calin；　my　translator；　my　thanks。
　 To　Michael　Hadley；　Joe　Daley　and　Renee　Rosen；　who　run　all　the　various　aspects　of　my　creative　life　outside　writing　and　painting　（films；　television；　theme　park　mazes　and　toy…lines；　web…sites；　photographs…and　the　endless　business　of　promoting　the　above）；　my　gratitude。　In　the　last　year　and　a　half；　I　have　often　been　an　absentee　boss；　because　I've　been　in　the　wilds　of　Coldheart　Canyon。　During　that　period；　they　have　worked　together　to　make　our　businesses　prosper。　Let　me　not　forget　Ana　Osgood　and　Denny　McLain；　to　whom　fall　the　very　considerable　responsibilities　of　organizing　and　archiving　my　visual　work；　especially　the　many　enormous　paintings　for　my　next　books；　The　Abarat　Quartet。
　 Then　there　are　the　two　people…Toya　Castillo　and　Alex　Rosas…who　make　the　homes　in　which　we　work　run　smoothly。　Who　feed　David　and　myself；　and　wash　our　clothes；　who　make　sure　there's　shampoo　in　our　shower　and　our　dogs　smell　sweet。　Again；　I　have　been　something　of　a　phantom　of　myself　for　much　of　the　last　year；　passing　through　the　house　on　my　way　to　write　or　paint　with　a　distracted　look。　They　kindly　indulge　my　craziness；　and　my　endless　calls　for　cups　of　hot　sweet　tea。
　 I　also　owe　a　great　debt　of　gratitude　to　Dr　Alex　del　Rosario；　and　his　assistant　Judy　Azar。　I　recently　described　Alex　as　the　perfect　'artist's　doctor'。　He　has　guided　me　through　some　lengthy　periods　of　sickness　in　the　last　couple　of　years；　understanding　as　no　other　physician　in　my　history　has　the　fierce　and　sometimes　self…wounding　passion　that　makes　artists　attempt　to　do　the　impossible：　to　paint　another　world　into　being；　while　writing　a　two　hundred　thousand　word　novel　while　producing　a　couple　of　movies；　for　instance。　For　me；　this　is　my　natural；　albeit　obsessive；　behavior。　But　my　body　isn't　that　of　a　thirty…year…old　any　longer　（or　even　that　of　a　forty…year…old！）。　It　plains　now　when　I　drive　it　hard；　as　I　do　daily。　It　has　taken　a　massive　contribution　of　sympathetic　counsel；　medication　and　alternative　therapies　to　keep　body　and　spirit　together　since　my　father's　death　and　I　owe　Alex　a　huge　debt　of　thanks　for　my　present　good　health。
　 Finally；　the　powers　that　be。　First；　my　love　and　thanks　to　Ben　Smith；　my　Hollywood　agent；　who　has　been　a　true　visionary　in　a　job　that　is　often　maligned　（in　this　book；　for　instance）　as　being　for　cold；　artistically　disinterested　men　and　women。　My　thanks　and　great　admiration　go　to　the　lawyer　who　has　helped　shape　my　business　life　in　the　last　two　years；　David　Golden。　The　Abarat　deal　with　the　Disney　pany　was　the　largest　literary　deal　made　in　Hollywood　last　year；　and　it　covers　every　possible　shape　and　permutation　that　my　invented　world　might　take；　in　the　hands　of　Disney's　imagineers。　To　give　you　a　taste　of　what　kind　of　wordage　David　Golden　has　minutely　analyzed　on　my　behalf：　the　Disney　contract　had　three　pages　alone　devoted　to　listing　its　contents！
　 On　the　literary　side；　my　dear　Anne　Sibbald；　who　has　surely　the　tenderest　heart　of　any　agent　who　ever　represented　an　unreformed　maker　of　monsters　like　myself；　has　been　a　constant　source　of　encouragement；　and　a　fearless　champion　when…on　occasion…the　machinations　of　the　corporate　world　proved　painful　and　inprehensible。
　 And　last…but　oh；　you　both　know；　never　least…my　editors。
　 In　New　York；　Robert　Jones　（who's　had　his　own　wars　to　fight　of　late；　and　has　still　always　been　there　with　a　witty　word　of　support；　or　some　wonderfully　dry　remark　at　the　expense　of　the　many　idiocies　of　the　publishing　world。）
　 And　finally　we　e　to　Jane　Johnson。　My　Jane；　I　insist；　the　Editor　of　Editors；　who　is　never　far　from　my　mind　when　I　set　pen　to　paper。　Increasingly；　Jane；　I　think　I　write　to　entertain　you；　to　please　you。　We　have　survived　for　many　years　together　on　a　raft　of　shared　beliefs　about　the　necessity　of　dreams；　tossed　around　in　the　tumultuous　seas　of　modern　publishing。　In　that　time；　Jane　has　lost　countless　colleagues　to　exhaustion；　frustration　and　despair；　and　yet　she　manages　to　be　a　mistress　of　beautiful　prose　as　well　as　an　editor　of　a　stable　of　authors；　who；　like　me；　could　not　imagine　their　literary　lives　continuing　without　her。
　 I　would　have　given　up　the　increasingly　problematic　ambition　of　having　a　broad　audience　for　my　work；　and　fled　into　the　minor；　the　hermetic　and　the　oblique；　without　her　tireless　encouragement。
　 My　love　to　you；　my　Jane；　and；　as　always；　my　heartfelt　thanks。
　 Here's　another　tale　for　you；　saved　from　the　flood。
　 CB
　
　
　PROLOGUE
　THE　CANYON
　
　 It　is　night　in　Coldheart　Canyon；　and　the　wind　es　off　the　desert。
　 The　Santa　Anas；　they　call　these　winds。　They　blow　off　the　Mojave；　bringing　malaise；　and　the　threat　of　fire。　Some　say　they　are　named　after　Saint　Anne；　the　mother　of　Mary；　others　that　they　are　named　after　one　General　Santa　Ana；　of　the　Mexican　cavalry；　a　great　creator　of　dusts；　others　still　that　the　name　is　derived　from　santanta；　which　means　Devil　Wind。
　 Whatever　the　truth　of　the　matter；　this　much　is　certain：　the　Santa　Anas　are　always　baking　hot；　and　often　so　heavily　laden　with　perfume　that　it's　as　though　they've　picked　up　the　scent　of　every　blossom　they've　shaken　on　their　way　here。　Every　wild　lilac　and　wild　rose；　every　white　sage　and　rank　jimsonweed；　every　heliotrope　and　creosote　bush：　gathered　them　all　up　in　their　hot　embrace　and　borne　them　into　the　hidden　channel　of　Coldheart　Canyon。
　 There's　no　lack　of　blossoms　here；　of　course。　Indeed；　the　Canyon　is　almost　uncannily　verdant。　Some　of　the　plants　here　were　brought　in　from　the　world　outside　by　these　same　burning　winds；　these　Santa　Anas；　others　were　dropped　in　the　feces　of　the　wild　animals　who　wander　through…the　deer　and　coyote　and　raccoon；　some　spread　from　the　gardens　of　the　great　dream　palace　that　lays　solitary　claim　to　this　corner　of　Hollywood。　Alien　blooms；　this　last　kind…orchids　and　lotus　flowers…nurtured　by　gardeners　who　have　long　since　left　off　their　pruning　and　their　watering；　and　departed；　allowing　the　bowers　which　they　once　treasured　to　run　riot。
　 But　for　some　reason　there　is　always　a　certain　bitterness　in　the　blooms　here。　Even　the　hungry　deer；　driven　from　their　traditional　trails　these　days　by　the　presence　of　sightseers　who　have　e　to　see　Tinseltown；　do　not　linger　in　the　Canyon　for　very　long。　Though　the　deer　venture　along　the　ridge　and　down　the　steep　slopes　of　the　Canyon；　and　curiosity；　especially　amongst　the　younger　animals；　often　leads　them　over　the　rotted　fences　and　toppled　walls　into　the　secret　enclaves　of　the　gardens；　they　seldom　choose　to　stay　there　for　very　long。
　 Perhaps　it　isn't　just　that　the　leaves　and　petals　are　bitter。　Perhaps　there　are　too　many　whisperings　in　the　air　around　the　ruined　gazebos；　and　the　animals　are　unnerved　by　what　they　hear。　Perhaps　there　are　too　many　presences　brushing　against　their　trembling　flanks　as　they　explore　the　clotted　pathways。　Perhaps；　as　they　graze　the　overgrown　lawns；　they　lookup　and　mistake　a　statue　for　a　pale　fragment　of　life；　and　are　startled　by　their　error；　and　take　flight。
　 Perhaps；　sometimes；　they　are　not　mistaken。
　
　 Perhaps。
　 The　Canyon　is　familiar　with　perhaps；　with　what　may　or　may　not　be。　And　never　more　so　than　on　such　a　night　as　this；　when　the　winds　e　sighing　off　the　desert；　heavy　with　their　perfume；　and　such　souls　as　the　Canyon　hosts　express　their　longing　for　something　they　dreamed　they　had；　or　dreamed　that　they　dreamed；　their　voices　so　tenuous　tonight　that　they're　inaudible　to　the　human　ear；　even　if　there　were　someone　to　hear　them；　which　there　never　is。
　 That's　not　entirely　true。　On　occasion　somebody　will　be　tenacious　enough　to　find　their　way　into　this　vale　of　luxury　and　tears；　a　tourist；　perhaps　even　a　family　of　tourists；　foolishly　determined　to　discover　what　lies　off　the　prescribed　route；　looking　for　some　famous　heart…throb's　love…nest；　or　a　glimpse　of　the　idol　himself；　caught　unawares　as　he　walks　with　his　dog。　There　are　even　a　few　trespassers　over　the　years　who　have　found　their　way　here　intentionally；　guided　to　this　place　by　hints　dropped　in　obscure　accounts　of　Old　Hollywood。　They　venture　cautiously；　these　few。　Indeed　there　is　often　something　close　to　reverence　in　the　way　they　enter　Coldheart　Canyon。　But　however　these　visitors　arrive；　they　always　leave　the　same　way：　hurriedly；　with　many　a　nervous　backward　glance。　Even　the　crassest　of　them…even　the　ones　who'd　claim　they　don't　have　a　psychic　bone　in　their　bodies…are　disfited　by　something　they　sniff　here。　Their　sixth　sense；　they　have　discovered；　is　far　more　acute　than　they　had　thought。　Only　when　they　have　outrun　the　all…too…eager　shadows　of　the　Canyon　and　they　are　back　in　the　glare　of　the　billboards　on　Sunset　Boulevard；　do　they　wipe　their　clammy　palms；　and　wonder　to　themselves　how　it　was　that　in　such　a　harmless　spot　they　could　have　been　so　very　afraid。
　
　
　PART　ONE
　THE　PRICE　OF　THE　HUNT
　
　ONE
　 〃Your　wife　did　not　want　to　look　around　the　Fortress　any　further；　Mister　Zeffer？〃　Father　Sandru　said；　seeing　that　on　the　second　day　the　middle…aged　man　with　the　handsome；　sad　face　had　e　alone。
　 〃The　lad